


There is a standing stone out on the moors

by randomisedmongoose



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Philosophy, and a big rock, deep thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23632627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomisedmongoose/pseuds/randomisedmongoose
Summary: Frumpkin gets poofed back to the Feywild, and has a conversation with an old friend.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 74





	There is a standing stone out on the moors

**Author's Note:**

> This started with the title and just sort of spiralled into a philosophical discussion on the nature of love, commitment and fey creatures.

There is a standing stone out on the moors. It’s where Frumpkin always ends up when Caleb snaps him away. It stands alone among the rough grass and shrubs, with no roads or tracks leading there, battered by the elements. The moors are wild and desolate, dangerous even by the high standards of the Fey realms. Who put the stone there? Nobody remembers, except perhaps the stone itself, and it does not tell. Perhaps it put itself there; perhaps it grew, like a mushroom; perhaps it was something other, sometime. All these things happen in the Feywild, and too often to count, at that.

After the transition, there is a brief moment of bewilderment and dizziness before the entity known as Frumpkin gets his bearings. When he realises where he is, he sighs deeply. It’s hard, sometimes, the waiting. Time in the Feywild is not a dimension, nor is it a universal constant. It is an entity in and of itself, just as fickle and prone to mood swings as the grass, the denizens, the air. Frumpkin can no longer remember when or how, but at some point, he pissed Time off. Now, every time he returns to the Feywild, it’s a crapshoot at how long it’s going to take to come back.

“Oh, hey. You’re back.” The stone has no expression, but despite that, there is an air of quiet joy about the grey monolith.

Frumpkin smiles. “Hey.”

“I missed you,” the stone says.

Frumpkin pads up to it. With each step, he shudders, stretches, morphs and take back his original form. He runs his long fingers gently over the top of the stone and smiles.

“I missed you too. Anything happen when I was gone?”

“Not much. There was a big summer storm, you would have liked that.”

“Mmm. Anybody come by?”

“Oh, lots of people,” the stone replies, dismissively. “You know how it is. A conclave of small gods on a tourist trip. A couple of adventurers on a quest to free their One True Love from the clutches of the evil necromancer. A guy selling oranges. Some werewolves. Same old, same old. Oh, there was this really nice sunset. The colours were marvellous, all pink and red.”

“Yeah, I would have liked to see that.”

“So… here for long?”

“You know that’s not up to me,” Frumpkin replies in an irritated tone.

The stone sighs. “Just trying to make conversation.”

“I know. Sorry I snapped at you.” Frumpkin drags his hands through his tangled hair and sits at the base of the stone.

“You seem down. Anything happen?”

The familiar sighs and rests his back against the lichen-covered menhir. “I’m just really concerned. There’s… a lot happening right now. A lot of things coming together. The travelling one is set to ascend.”

“I’m not surprised.” The stone scoffs. ”We’ve felt the changes here too.”

“Do you think he knows how his aspirations affect us?”

“Maybe.” If pieces of rough stonework could shrug, it would have, but it can’t, so it doesn’t. 

“Do you think he cares?”

“Not a bit. If he cared he wouldn’t be an Archfey.”

“Hmmm. That’s the sticking point, isn’t it? I think he has started to care.”

“Ha. Not in our lifetimes. The Seelie Court don’t have the knack for it.”

Frumpkin hums noncommittally. “My master is worried about it, in any case.”

“Why be worried? If the travelling one wishes to do something, he’ll do it. It can’t be changed, so why fret over it?”

“Human nature, I suppose. They do so need to be in control all the time.”

“What a weird existence,” the stone muses.

Frumpkin laughs. They share the silence that stretches out like a comforting blanket. The wind picks up and whips through the heather, dancing in the sedges and making the dry stems rustle and whisper. Frumpkin listens, taking in the promises and stories, listening but not replying. Speaking recklessly in the Feywild is a sure-fire way to invite trouble; he knows this, intimately.

“So… is all that working out for you? The contract, I mean.”

“Surprisingly, yes. I didn’t think it would. I thought it would be torture, being chained to another like this. But it doesn’t feel like chains. It feels like an embrace.” Frumpkin regards his hands, changing them back into paws, briefly, then back again.

The stone hums agreement. “Is he happy with you, then? Your master?”

Frumpkin wiggles a little and buries his face in his hands. “Yes! He loves me so much, it’s like being dipped in melted gold. The shape just reinforces it, every time I’m an animal I feel more bonded to him. When he looks through my eyes, we’re so close, it’s like we pass through each other.”

“And the others that you told me about?”

Frumpkin removes his hands and huffs. “He loves all three of them. It’s becoming a problem.”

The stone sounds exasperated. “Please explain this concept again. You know I’ve never really understood these things. ‘Love’ is a good thing; you’ve told me this. But it’s a _bad_ thing to love many people?”

“Well, no. Not as such. But they section love into boxes, calling _this_ romance and _that_ familiarity. And they have such a problem with loving a lot of people _strongly_. It’s like they’re afraid that the love is going to run out or get lost, or something.”

“I mean, it could, I guess,” the stone hazards. “Everything can be lost.”

Frumpkin waves his hand dismissively. “Well sure, but then you’d have to make a pact and steal it and it would be a whole _thing_. It can’t just _happen_ on its own.”

“If you say so.” The stone sounds unconvinced.

“Think of it like this.” The familiar snaps his fingers, and a candle flame appears on his fingertip. “Imagine that this flame is love, right?”

“Right.“

“They think that if there’s two people, the love will halve, and be less.” Frumpkin puts up another finger. “But it doesn’t work like that.” He puts the two fingers together, igniting the second from the flame of the first. When he separates the two fingers, the flame burns bright and just as big on both of them. “Shared love is the same love.”

“Huh. That is so interesting.”

“I wish he’d do something about it, is all. I feel so bad for him.” Frumpkin regards the dancing flames.

“That’s what I like about you, that capacity to feel complex emotions. It’s so rare in your breed.”

Frumpkin blushes a little. “I didn’t, at first. But I changed, in meeting him. Complexity grows on you.”

“Like moss,” the stone muses.

Frumpkin laughs. “I couldn’t comment.”

“You should try it sometime.”

The silence stretches on. Time passes, and gives Frumpkin the evil eye. He won’t be going back soon, then. He picks a dead twig from the ground and start toying with it, turning it over and over in his hand. Slowly, it starts growing shoots and leaves. Soon enough, he sits with a miniature tree in his hand, coaxing another branch into life. He turns it this way and that, admiring the diminutive canopy. He puts it down carefully, planting it in the shadow of the stone, out of the way of the relentless wind.

“Did you know that stones don’t feel anything in the Prime Material?”

“Truly? Well I never. That’s a crying shame.” The stone sounds surprised.

“Yeah. No talking or anything. Just collections of complex minerals.”

The stone considers this. “That sounds… peaceful.”

“I’m sure it is, in a way. Would you prefer that?”

“… no,” it replies, after a long silence. “If I were a silent stone, you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

“Not as much, perhaps.”

They silently regard a flock of dragons, flying in formation due Nightwards. The sound of a snipe echoes over the moor.

“Your master. Does he know you love him too?”

Frumpkin looks up, surprised. “Well, yes. Of course.”

“Yeah, but you know. Love-love.” The stone sounds proud of being able to use the word in its proper context.

“Well, no. Of course not. How could he? It’s not like I can talk to him.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it? Of all the people he loves, I get to be with him.”

“But you’re here.”

“For a while. For a very short while, for him. It’s no matter.”

“I’m happy that you’re here, in any case.”

Frumpkin smiles and rests his cheek against the stone. The sun peeks through the clouds, casting pale rays over the landscape, illuminating the greys and reds and browns. The familiar sleeps, curled up in the lee of the menhir. The sun sets and rises, the storm rises and falls, and the good weather returns. The small tree grows to rival the size of the stone.

Time passes, and finally relents.

There is a standing stone out on the moors. It waits patiently for the next conversation. Perhaps the warm sensation deep in its crystalline core is love, perhaps it’s the inevitable entropy that claims everything in the end. Perhaps there’s no real difference. The wind whispers through the heather, singing a song of love and loss and waiting, and of the change that comes through meeting others.


End file.
